


Sanctum Est

by metal_eye



Series: Sanctuary [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blasphemy, Fallen Angels, Fluff and Angst, God is a dick, M/M, Thunderstorms, and tries to get them back, but they're not sad about it, it's not really a stand-alone, mild PTSD, nothing about this is remotely religiously accurate, sex got them banned, you kinda have to read Divine to understand this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 11:18:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16994025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metal_eye/pseuds/metal_eye
Summary: Each action, each mundane moment of the day has become sacred, partially in the knowledge that they are limited.Months after the events ofDivine, Harry and Louis receive a visit.





	Sanctum Est

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY [GINA!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twopoppies) Five months late. Because I am terrible and started writing this for your birthday in July, but I only just finished it. Forgive me.
> 
> It's for you because you were the only person to dig into my backlog of random fic listings and champion the weird little nugget I first wrote back in college based on Kaori Yuki's ANGEL SANCTUARY that nobody read because it's in first person (whoops, so is this one, you can nope out now if you want). You convinced me that maybe the story wasn't over yet. You're also just an amazing person and friend. I heart you. I hope you like this.
> 
> The ever lovely and talented [Bri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BriaMaria) was my much-needed beta because the mess in my head doesn't always make sense to other people.
> 
> [Playlist now on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/1225235640/playlist/06zhqRWD3eB7IXZRWXLkXZ?si=GohgKitNQ5KTFzbFOsxSDg), except there's a song missing because their selection sucks.
> 
> If you enjoyed the series, you can reblog the [tumblr post](http://metal-eye.tumblr.com/post/181724641367/twopoppies-sanctuary-by-metaleye-metal-eye) that Gina so graciously made for me.

 

 

 

I shake off my wet umbrella in the foyer before ascending the stairs to our loft. My clothes are, thankfully, dry, though it’s taken me several rainstorms to learn what humans must do to keep dry. Several rainstorms and a bout of terrible sickness described as “the common cold” — though I’m not sure why, as there is surely nothing common about it.  
  
The stairway is narrow, but I climb with the ease of knowing what awaits me. I hold bags full of drinks and scores of used records for the phonograph.  
  
I turn a key in the lock at the top of the stairs and savor the sound, adding it to the symphonies in my head.  
  
The apartment is small enough that you’ve already turned the corner from the kitchen by the time I open the door. You smile widely, tucking a long curl behind your ear. It’s a habit you’ve only formed since we were human, and so I cling to it, savoring every part of you that never belonged to _him._ “Louis!” you exclaim, green eyes gleaming. “You’re just in time to try the new recipe I created. The book said to use tarragon, but I substituted—”  
  
“I’m sure it’s delicious.” I drop my bags by the door and cross the small room to reach you, run my hand along your chin, and kiss it. “You have an excellent track record.”  
  
“Mmm. Take your boots off, my love — you’re getting the floor wet.”  
  
I reach down to unlace my shoes, pulling each one off and bringing the pair to the side of the room by the furnace. Each action, each mundane moment of the day has become sacred, partially in the knowledge that they are limited. But the heavy feeling of being pinned fast to the ground has lightened, slightly, since that first night.  
  
It has been many months of moving, learning, making new identities we are now forced to carry in our pockets. Your name, Harry, crisp as silver even in my human ears, is no longer enough for the lives we now live. Other names are required, and _background profiles_ , and that one concept — _age_ — that has been so difficult to comprehend.  
  
You have fallen in with books and I, with music, our natural proclivities extending into mortal life. You read page after page of food, of spirituality, of the hundred odd years of human history that we digested as mere spectators. You read countless stories penned by those same humans and effuse about their wisdom, their beauty in moral ambiguity in lieu of steadfast worship texts. You claim these written adventures send you places far from here, though our wingless feet cannot leave the ground. Our tiny abode is filled with the musty smell of recorded mistakes and imperfect knowledge.  
  
My attention, in turn, has been taken wholly by the delicacy of record grooves. The sounds produced by this century of beings are not concerned with immaculate pitch or choral perfection; rather, the static that emerges from an electrified instrument, alternately piercing and tonal, conveys the emotional burdens of existence in a way our angelic choirs never could. The riches are such that I am equally enthralled by the winding canals of jazz creation and short bursts of punk rock rage; by Benny Goodman, Lou Reed, Selena, Beethoven, Cher, and Motorhead alike.  
  
Our days thus spent poring over artistic marvels, the nights are spent poring over each other — these bodies we gave our previous lives away for. And at least twice per evening, per shiver, per taste of come, I think to myself, _what a bargain._  
  
You serve us dinner on ceramic plates cornered in _fleurs-de-lis_ : chicken, rice, and carrots. A  simple meal, I’m told, but enough to occupy our hands and mouths, and that is often everything.  
  
The rain rattles against the windows, calling down lightning. I can tell you are on edge. There are no cracks of thunder — not yet — but the storm may yet strengthen.  
     
It’s not the rain that frightens you, but the sound so similar to what used to come before our creator’s appearance — or, eventually, before his sermons sent straight to our ears. _Boom._ An admonishment. _Boom._ An assignment. And, ultimately: _Boom._ Our banishment.  
  
The inconvenience of rain from my earlier walk is negligible in face of the way thunder makes you tremble.  
  
“He is not here,” I say gently, a reminder.  
  
“But he may yet come.”  
  
You gather the silverware and stand up, moving into the kitchen. And it may be my imagination, but I seem to detect a hint of anticipation in your voice — not for the first time.  
  
But no. You were as eager as I to shed the shackles of our wings and know love. I need not fear your desertion.  
  
I come up behind you in the small kitchen and kiss the back of your neck as you slowly massage soap into the remnants of cookware. “You have nothing to fear,” I say, wrapping my arms around your hips. “Trust me.”  
  
“Louis, I have always trusted you,” you assert, turning slightly to the side so I can identify the scattered hairs you call stubble. “It’s _him_ I don’t trust.”  
  
I grip your flesh more tightly in response, kneading the skin to assure myself of our conspicuous humanity. You turn and press your nose into the space between my collarbones.  
  
The thunder comes. You tremble, and I take you into my arms.

  
***  
  
“ _Sanctum. Sanctum est,_ ” I say in bed, repeating part of the chant we once used in exaltation, while my thighs flex against yours. Your tongue seems to be made from the points of a music box; it touches particular nerves in a pattern that causes me to keen, to picture laying myself onto the record player and discovering what notes it might detect. Your mouth makes arpeggios from my elbows to the base of my hips, pausing with a sense of cheeky momentum before making an earnest dive into a dependable rhythm, handling my soul, pinching my flesh and reminding me that it’s there.  
  
Later, you stroke me in the sunless bedroom glow, which is artificially lit by the laser screen of a laptop — a human necessity, we had shortly discovered. Our limbs lie over each other, tepidly exploring despite exhaustion, for we can never get enough of this. The half-moon of your hip lurches upwards… and then I hear it.  
  
_Boom._  
  
It startles us both to movement, and you wrench your body from the bed in terror, eyes wildly searching — for the storm had been over for an hour or more.  
  
_Boom._  
  
“No,” you rasp, tumbling from the sheet, white skin flashing between shadows. I wrench myself to follow, hands reaching.  
  
_Boom._  
  
A low thud lands squarely into my midsection, grounding my corporal self and setting off a series of sharp breaths. You are standing in the door of the bedroom, now, clutching the jamb as if it’s the only solid thing in an otherwise turbulent sea. I am barely on my feet before it sounds again: this time, a final warning.  
  
_Boom._  
  
HARRY AND LOUIS.  
  
Across the room, your visage is now turned toward the head of our bed, where a great white figure has landed, speaking.  
  
HE REGRETS THAT HE CANNOT COME HIMSELF. HE HAS SENT ME IN HIS STEAD.  
  
Delicate lies. Pretty ones. I know you don’t believe them any more than I do.  
  
I COME TO OFFER YOU A BARGAIN.  
  
Your silhouette lets go of the door and stands up straight. In defiance or curiosity? “Bargain,” you say, and my soul turns to ice. Are we being tested?  
  
But we have failed the test, already; we failed in the utmost joy that first night above the bar.  
  
I clutch vaguely at the distance between our bodies as if to to extinguish it, to grasp your solid limbs in a kind of naked solidarity. Except I have no way of knowing your intention, now: I cannot climb inside your thoughts, and the ignorance of your motives that has often been so enticing since the fall suddenly seems too much to bear.  
  
HARRY. YOU HAVE LEARNED MUCH OF THE HUMAN WORLD.  
  
Your knowledge. The books. It has occurred to me that your pursuits in this realm reflect those of the holy order. Has your intention been to return all this time?  
  
Perhaps you’ve grown tired of this primitive structure. The leak in the bathroom. The window that won’t close or fit entirely flush with the sill. The third floorboard that creaks upon bearing your weight, the endless parade of moths fluttering against the sink light, the dust and the mildew and mold—  
  
HE WOULD SHARE YOUR KNOWLEDGE. HE WOULD TAKE YOU BACK.  
  
For a moment I see your eyes widen, and my now-mortal gut sinks with a heavy resignation. It’s you. He just wants you. You were always meant to leave, to return to splendor, to weigh the taste of love against heaven and choose the purer path. You have always been too good for this.  
  
HE IS WILLING TO _FORGIVE._  
  
In my self-absorbed despair, I have not noticed your detachment from the door jamb and stealth movement to my side. You turn to look me in the eye. Your skin glazed with sweat, still — errand hairs and a mole.  
  
“What I have _learned_ ,” you say slowly, patiently, “betrays your manifesto, as does my fate.”  
  
I hold my breath.  
  
“All the libraries of heaven know nothing of love.”  
  
Your curved fingers clandestinely search for the skin of my elbow. There is a long pause. Then the white figure’s words come like a death sentence.  
  
YOU SPEAK AS IF YOU HAVE A _CHOICE_ .  
  
You stumble forward, then regain your balance. The white figure has made a fist. A clawed hand. I move to pull you backward, desperate. I will not lose you. Not after all this _time—_  
  
—huddled in store corners, startled by the many nuances of ingredients. Combining our sights into short trips to tall buildings, trying vainly to see the sin in our position. Feeding the stray dog by the dumpster outside, noting a kind of desperation in its eyes — the same one as ours must have had, then. Acknowledging barriers but appreciating them, using the edge of potential to brace ourselves against despair. Allowing questionable choices to educate. Getting caught on wire fences. Getting cold. Getting dirty. Sometimes even bloody.  
  
Suddenly, I understand: our physical selves have changed.  
  
“Blood,” I say, somehow confident. “Bile, and sweat! Our bodies—”  
  
“Are no longer his to command,” you say, wiping a hair from the side of my head. “He cannot claim me, nor force my hand.”  
  
You turn to the figure on the bed.  
  
“I am my own man. And I would stay.”  
  
The warmth it gives me feels like a fever.  
  
I expect to hear the voice again, thundering at such a betrayal, but it seems to have been silenced.  
  
I can barely breathe. “Harry,” I try. “Harry. Your fear?”  
  
“Only of being taken away from you,” you say. “But it is finished, now: we are anchored here. We are _free.”_  
  
Free.  


When I glance back to the bed, the white figure has gone.

  
I wrap my arms around your shoulders, bring my forehead to yours, and exhale. Something lifts from the back of my neck. It almost feels like wings.  
  
In the unmonitored later morning, the storm starts again, and with it comes intermittent lightning. But we barely wake from slumber. Our bones are folded inwards, nestled upon each other, safe— and every clash of thunder brings only the sound of rain.


End file.
